Crossing the border from between Nazran, Ingushetia and Grozny, we passed through three army checkpoints, manned by Russian guards in helmets and Kevlar vests and armed with AK-47s. Huge men with ruthless eyes, they looked like they’d pull the triggers of their automatic weapons at the slightest hint of provocation. They narrowed their eyes and stared at us, slowly scanning our faces then comparing them to our passports. Each time their icy eyes lifted from the passports to us, the rope of tension between us and them pulled a little tighter. Their suffocating gaze pressed down hard on us, and their angry silence held the possibility of explosive violence. It made it hard to breathe. Fear was something I had rarely experienced directly. Finally, they waved us through. By the time we cleared the third checkpoint, the car smelled of sweat.